


Stars and Boulevards

by cherrystreet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Coming of Age, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Reconciliation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9182758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrystreet/pseuds/cherrystreet
Summary: They’d been friends for years, had known each other throughout middle school and into high school, meeting in a music class on a sticky September morning. They hit it off instantly, falling into one another immediately, never looking back. Their friendship was comfortable, genuine, safe, always there, achingly present and solid. Harry never felt uneasy confiding in Louis, their one year age gap making Louis somehow seem more worldly, more experienced, and even when Harry had to look down at Louis, he still looked up to him. They spent the quickly passing school years making each other’s homes their own, Harry’s mom calling Louis her honorary second son, Louis’ mom giving Harry a similar title, and everyone knew that if you wanted to find Harry, you had to find Louis first.---Tumblr





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this on Tumblr for a bit but decided to add a little more to the ending, and figured it was getting too long to be considered a "Drabble" at 6k words!

They’d been friends for years, had known each other throughout middle school and into high school, meeting in a music class on a sticky September morning. They hit it off instantly, falling into one another immediately, never looking back. Their friendship was comfortable, genuine, safe, always there, achingly present and solid. Harry never felt uneasy confiding in Louis, their one year age gap making Louis somehow seem more worldly, more experienced, and even when Harry had to look down at Louis, he still looked up to him. They spent the quickly passing school years making each other’s homes their own, Harry’s mom calling Louis her honorary second son, Louis’ mom giving Harry a similar title, and everyone knew that if you wanted to find Harry, you had to find Louis first.

Harry came out to Louis when he was 15, Louis in the driver’s seat of his first car, a beat up Honda that nearly had to be pushed up hills. Upon his admission, Louis gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, inhaling sharply, not answering.

“Is that… Okay?” Harry asked, suddenly nervous, a feeling he  _ never _ got around Louis.

“Of course it’s okay,” Louis whispered back, not daring to look away from the road. He was a new driver, then, his license still a piece of paper, the laminated copy not in his possession yet. “You’re just, like. Brave. Always brave.”

He chewed on his bottom lip, nodding slightly. “You make it easy to be. And you’re the only person who knows.” He paused. “Well, I assume my mom knows. She knows everything.”

Louis smirked slightly. “True.”

“But you’re the only person I’ve said it out  _ loud _ to.”

“I’m special then, I guess.”

“You are.”

They were silent as Louis wound them through unoccupied streets, the moon bright, stars poking through the blackened sky. The radio crackled, static louder than the actual music, and it only took a minute or two of the noise before Louis slammed it off, sighing.

“Thank you.”

Harry picked at the hole in his jeans. “For what?”

“For telling me. For being honest and blunt and… you.”

He failed to bite back his smile or his blush, looking up through the windshield, unable to make eye contact with Louis. “Lou, the light is green.”

“No one’s around. We can sit here for a minute.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Not really, other than the fact that we can.”

And that’s the thing about Louis that Harry loved so much, the thing that eventually blurred the line between platonic and more. He had an attitude that speaks volumes about the kind of person he was raised to be: strong, adamant, pushy, but beyond that, he’s smart, kind, genuine, absolutely stunning. Harry spent more time than not staring at the way his smile took over his entire face, eyes forming into tiny slits, laugh breathy and contagious.

At the beginning of Louis’ senior year and Harry’s junior, Louis laid across Harry’s bedroom floor, pamphlet for yet  _ another _ college draped across his face, groaning.

“I hate this,” he complains from under the brochure. “Applying to schools  _ sucks _ .”

“Okay, yeah, but moving away is going to be amazing, don’t you think?”

“No. I don’t know how to do laundry.”

Harry snorts, tossing a pillow at him. “Sit up and finish your application. You only have two more left, and then we can go do something.”

“There’s nothing to do here. We live in the middle of nowhere.”

“Do you think you’ll plan on staying? In the middle of nowhere?”

Louis sits up, shrugging, letting the college’s pamphlet flutter to the rug. “I dunno. There’s pros and cons of going far away and staying close by.”

“What’re the pros?”

“Close to family, close to friends,” Louis replies, ticking the items off on his fingers, “instate tuition, I can drive my car there and can come home whenever I want…”

“Cons?”

He sucks in his cheeks. “Would miss some people, probably.”

“Am I included on that list?” Harry asks, fluttering his eyelashes, only half kidding.

“If you’re lucky.”

“Gee, thanks.” He cocks his head. “Wanna take a break, and go do something in the middle of nowhere? While you’re still here?”

Louis smiles his Louis smile, the one that always takes Harry’s breath away without fail. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They find a party, hosted by some girl in Louis’ class, and they join a group of classmates in the garage, passing around cheap, watered down beer. Louis graciously takes two cups, handing one to Harry, and he sits down on a dented metal folding chair, squeaking loudly under his weight, rolling his eyes at the sound.

“You sure you wanna leave all this behind?” Harry jokes.

“Shut up and drink.”

The group expands, and it seems that as the attendee’s numbers climb, the drunker everyone gets, feeding off of the growing energy. Harry doesn’t know how it ends up happening, but one minute he’s standing with Clara, asking her about her homecoming plans, and the next, he’s swinging at that prick Jason Kenney for calling him a fucking faggot, raging mad, can’t see straight he’s so pissed off. He’s too drunk, though, and misses Jason entirely, panting heavily, but he doesn’t bother going at him again, not when Louis’ in front of him and screaming. Louis’ fist connects with Jason’s jaw, the sound harsh and unmistakable, Jason falling back instantly, and his expression is pure fire when he spits out, “Don’t you  _ ever _ try to touch Harry again. Don’t even fucking  _ talk _ to him. Mess with my boy and I will make your life a living hell. I may be small but I am wild.” He turns to Harry. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Harry nods, chest heaving. “Okay.”

Their sneakers crunch in the gravel on the walk back to the car, no one daring to follow after them, and Harry’s vision is spinning, the whole world is spinning. He hunches over, hands on his knees, and empties his stomach, tears springing to his eyes, Louis’ hand in between his shoulder blades on his back, rubbing the same way his mom used to when he was little with the flu.

“You’re alright,” Louis whispers. “Get it all out, you’re fine, and we’re gonna pretend this entire night never happened, okay?”

Harry doesn’t answer that, can’t, just breathes deeply through his nose, wiping the sweat off his brow. It takes a few minutes for him to gain his footing again, for his heart rate to slow down, and when he’s somewhat collected, he straightens his back, pushing his curls out of his eyes. “You’re always taking care of me,” he mumbles.

“No one likes to be sick alone.”

“No. Not.” He squeezes his eyes shut at another wave of nausea. “I don’t know what happened in there but you, like. Thanks, Lou.”

Louis nods. “You ready to go home?”

“Can you drive?”

“Yeah, ‘m good. Are you? Good to get in a car?”

“Probably not but I can’t stand in this driveway forever.”

He smirks. “Want to go back to my house?”

“Yes, please.”

They creep into Louis’ house quietly, and Louis sets them up in the basement, placing a trash barrel next to the futon for Harry, climbing in beside him, pulling the blankets up to their chins. Harry feels like shit for the rest of the night, but he doesn’t get sick again. Louis’ hand on his hip steadies him, anchors him, keeps the room from tumbling around. The skin on skin is warm and Harry lets himself melt into it.

The next morning, Louis places an application in front of Harry’s face, telling him he’s made his decision, if he gets accepted. It’s for a school about 30 miles away.

* * *

The weeks leading up to Louis’ departure, Harry takes about a thousand and one pictures, telling Louis it’s because he’s trying to figure out how to use his new camera, but they both know it’s because Harry is just trying to hang on a little longer, trying to freeze memories and keep them safe in his hands. Louis doesn’t call him out on it, just poses, annoyed, in fields with the sun setting behind him, or in front of the old barn down the road, or on hikes down beaten pathways that lead to nothing. Harry can’t spit out the words  _ I love you _ , but he  _ can _ continue to snap shot after shot, staring at the blue eyed boy through his lens, angry that no matter which camera he uses, it can’t seem to capture all that is Louis.

The last week of August, Harry helps Louis move into his tiny dorm room, swallowing his jealousy that Owen from Charlotte gets to live with Louis for the next nine months, gets to see him in early morning light, gets to know him at three in the morning when everything seems funny and nothing makes sense. He pulls Louis in for a hug, one that goes on way too long, but Louis doesn’t pull away. He grips at Harry’s t-shirt, bunching it up in his fists, murmuring, “Let me know when you get home safe, okay?” and Harry nods against Louis’ neck before he’s even done speaking, knowing him well enough that he anticipated that’s what Louis would say.

“It’s only 28 miles,” Harry replies, arms still wrapped around Louis.

“Thank God.”

 

Harry hadn’t realized how much time he’d actually spent with Louis, now that he’s no longer an option. He tries to find a normal semblance, tries to get into his own routine without his missing limb, but it’s harder than he wants to admit and he spends the first month wandering down the same beaten paths, through the same worn fields, taking photos of the sky, the ground, his feet, of things that don’t matter, things that don’t make him smile.

He starts looking into his own colleges, applying to two local for safety, the majority of them on the West coast. San Francisco is appealing. Seattle is, too. He gets excited at the idea of leaving, at the idea of experiencing life outside of what he knows, and he’s working up the nerve to tell his mom he wants to  _ go _ when he gets a phone call late Thursday night.

“Lou, hi,” he answers on the second ring.

“How did you know you were gay,” Louis asks, voice slurred. “Like, when did you  _ know _ .”

Harry freezes, completely blind sided. He tries not to panic. “Um. I think I kind of always knew?”

“But how did you  _ say _ it?”

“You were there, you remember.”

“Harry, seriously, I’m freaking out and you’re not helping.”

He closes his eyes, nodding. He remembers how hard this part was. His stomach feels like it’s in his throat. “Say it to yourself a few times. Or practice on me, if you’d like.” But then Louis is crying and Harry’s heart hurts, his entire chest aches. “It’s okay. Lou, it’s okay. Did something happen?”

He’s crying harder now, the obvious influence of alcohol not helping. “There’s a guy here and he likes me and he keeps asking me out on dates and it doesn’t feel wrong and I don’t know  _ why _ it doesn’t feel wrong because I’ve only been with girls and.” He coughs, taking shaky breaths. “I’m not ready. To say it. I’m not ready to say it.”

Harry wipes his palms on his thighs, clammy and damp. “You don’t have to. There aren’t any rules.”

“It was so  _ easy _ for you, though, Harry. You just climbed into my car and fucking said it.  _ How _ did you do that.”

“It wasn’t easy. I tried to say it out loud for months.” He smirks a bit, even though Louis can’t see him. “I used to stand in front of my mirror and practice, watching the way my mouth moved. And I’d go through my closet to try to find the best ‘coming out’ shirt. That’s not even a thing. I was overthinking every little step.”

Louis laughs lightly. “Sounds like it.”

“But I knew that if anyone would be accepting and appreciative and the  _ right _ person to say it to,” he continues, “that you’d be it. And I was right.”

He breathes through the receiver for a beat too long. “I miss you.”

Harry lets his head fall, chin to his chest, trying not to think about the guy that wants to date Louis, who he is or what he looks like or if Louis wants him back. “I miss you, too.”

 

Louis calls him again about a week later. He murmurs through the line, his voice hushed, “I am, but I’m not ready to say it yet, and I’ve been obsessing over it for a month, or maybe a year, actually, but I needed to tell you. Just, like, don’t say anything yet, okay?”

“I won’t, I promise,” he replies. “I’m proud of you.”

“Shut up.”

Harry smiles, knowing Louis is doing the same.

 

He comes home for Thanksgiving, and he makes an appearance at Harry’s house for dessert. Harry pulls him into a hug that’s crushing, nearly painful, and breathes into his ear, “You look nice.”

Louis burrows his face into Harry’s chest. “At least one of us does.”

And Harry instantly relaxes, loves having his boy home, so close, pressed right up against his heart. He drags his hands up and down Louis’ back. “Do you want pie? Mom made pumpkin. And apple.”

“Maybe later. Kinda just want to hang with you, if that’s alright. Haven’t had any one-on-one time since before I left.”

“Aw, baby,” he croons stupidly, ducking out of the way when Louis swings at him.

They settle in on the couch together, flipping through the TV channels as if they’re going to pay attention to whatever program is on, and Louis drapes his legs across Harry’s lap, just like he always does. They graze over Louis’ classes, Harry’s applications, their siblings and old friends and new friends. And it feels regular, comfortable and safe, but Harry realizes Louis is much closer than he usually is, his gaze a little more intense, his hands on Harry’s upper thigh, and Harry can’t help himself when he traces the reddish stubble along Louis’ jaw. It’s rough and he tries to imagine what it would feel like brushing across his face.

He doesn’t take his hand away, even when Louis’ eyes grow wide, and he asks, voice hushed, “Did you ever end up dating that guy from school?”

“Andrew? No.”

“Oh, good, the devil has a name.”

Louis licks his lips. “Sounding a little jealous, there, boy.”

He sighs, his heart thumping. “I am.”

“You’re.” His hand tightens on Harry’s thigh, hot even through his jeans.

And he doesn’t know who moves first, doesn’t care, really, but Louis’ lips are on his and he tastes like the red wine Harry’s mom gave him and he moves slowly, carefully,  _ nervously _ . Harry keeps his hands firm on Louis’ jaw, afraid that if he lets go, Louis will bolt. He doesn’t, though, just deepens the kiss further, sighing into Harry’s mouth in a way that Harry finds way too endearing. His chest feels like it might burst, wants Louis too much, loves him so thoroughly and so excruciatingly, and when Louis breaks their contact, pressing their foreheads together, Harry’s positive there’s an exterior force that drove them together, that they were meant to be in every sense of the word.

“Have you dated anyone since I’ve been gone?” Louis whispers against Harry’s mouth.

He shakes his head. “Tried to,” he admits. “Didn’t seem worth it, though.”

“Why not?”

“Would’ve been pretending.” His eyes search across Louis’ eyes frantically. “Wanted someone else instead.”

“At the risk of sounding completely self absorbed, what if I never said I was, um. Never…” Louis waves his hands around, obviously uncomfortable.

“Wouldn’t have mattered. I’ve been fighting for you since day one, Lou. I wanted you before I knew you were gay. I think I wanted you before I knew  _ I _ was.”

He blushes. “Think you’re coming on a little strong?”

“Probably.”

“You don’t care, though.” It’s not a question.

“No, I don’t.”

 

They don’t announce they’re together. Harry lets Louis do whatever he’s comfortable with, which is sneaking around, introducing Harry to people at school as his best friend from home, and then behind doors, slotting their mouths together in a way that’s so slick and hot, Harry can’t help but fall pliant and take whatever Louis will give him. The secrecy doesn’t bother him; he knows Louis isn’t ready and it has nothing to do with Harry specifically. And if he’s being completely honest, it’s hard to care about parading Louis around as his when he finally gets to touch him and taste him, something he’s wanted for years.

He’d always dreamed they’d work well together, whenever he allowed his brain to go there in the deep recesses of his mind, but it’s impossibly better. The first time Louis gets his mouth around him, Harry lasts about two and a half minutes, Louis making fun of him for his 18-year-old stamina, but Harry argues that it’s  _ Louis _ .

“You’re too fucking good at it,” he breathes out, body shaking as Louis climbs over him. “I’m obsessed with you, absolutely obsessed with every inch of you. Come here.”

“You’re annoying,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes, but then Harry returns the favor and Louis’ the one cursing and shaking, panting out an echo of Harry’s thoughts. They’re on the same page, finally, and for the first time in what feels like a small lifetime, Harry feels like he can breathe.

 

They’re each other’s first everything, and Harry can’t believe he gets to be so lucky to have Louis this way, to have him at all. The first time Harry fucks into him, he swears he can see stars, can feel them, and Louis hangs onto him like he  _ needs _ him. It’s so much, too much, and when it’s over, Louis brushes his mouth across the back of Harry’s knuckles, murmuring, “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Harry nods, throat tight. “You’re all I want.”

A few weeks later, they’re sorting through a pile of messy, unedited photos, all courtesy of Harry, and they come across a picture of Louis looking over his shoulder, hair a mess, shoelaces untied, nose red from the cold. He’s walking across a sheet of ice, a layer of crunchy snow all around him, and you’d never know he had been miserable and complaining about the 13 degree temperature; his smile is bright, his irises nonexistent from the squint of his eyes, and Harry can almost feel his laughter.

“What was even going on in this picture,” Louis asks, tracing his fingers along the edge. “I don’t remember.”

He shakes his head, not really listening. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known,” he says under his breath.

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis blushes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry looks up at Louis, back down at the picture. “I’m so in love with you.” Back up at Louis. “Is that okay?”

“You.” He flicks his hair out of his face, cheeks even pinker now. “You asked me the same thing the day you came out to me.”

He smirks. “You’re right. I did.”

Louis bites on his bottom lip, inhaling sharply, then climbs into Harry’s lap, hiding his face in his neck. He squeezes Harry’s bicep a little too tightly, and Harry winces. “I love you, too,” he whispers. “So much.”

 

The next morning, Harry scrolls mindlessly through Twitter and Instagram, entire body frozen when he lands on a picture Louis posted late last night, one he somehow missed. The post is of Harry’s messy pile of photos, a snapshot of the two of them on top. Harry has his face pressed to Louis’, smiling, Louis rolling his eyes as if he hates it, but Harry remembers that day, that moment. He didn’t hate it at all.

The caption is simple, but the sentiment is there, and leave it to Louis to find a way to come out in the most beautiful way possible, not bothering with something dramatic or flashy - for once.

_ My boy. My all. I think I’ve always loved you. _

 

Harry gets accepted into seven out of the nine colleges he applied to, including his local safety schools, including Seattle University. It’s far from home, far from Louis, but there’s something about change that appeals to him so deeply, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t want to go. He tells Louis, and Louis nods, grimacing.

“I knew you’d pick that one,” he says, sighing. “Ugh, that’s a three hour time difference. That sucks.”

“We’re just gonna have to get creative with phone sex then, aren’t we.”

Louis snorts. “I guess so.” He places his hand on Harry’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb along his collarbone. “When will you move in?”

“Last week of August. Week before you.”

“Can I… Go with you? Help you unpack and stuff?”

“You want to?”

“Yeah, absolutely. You moved me in my freshman year. Gotta do the same for you.”

“Even though it’ll be an exhausting and sweaty road trip?”

“ _ Especially _ because it’ll be an exhausting and sweaty road trip.”

Harry laughs. “Should this be this easy? Me moving halfway across the country and you shrugging it off, like it’s just another day?”

Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s temple. “I’m shrugging it off because if I tell you what I’m really thinking right now, I’ll break. And I don’t want to do that yet.”

_ Same _ , he thinks. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks, searching Louis’ face for an honest answer.

He shakes his head, pausing. “Well, obviously, I want you here, but I want you to go, too. I would never hold you back. You’ll love Seattle. Seattle will love  _ you _ .”

“I hope so.”

“So. 16 weeks?”

“About that, yeah.”

“Alright, boy, let’s make it count.”

 

And they do.

Their summer together is a hot one, the AC in Harry’s car breaking mid-July, but it doesn’t matter. Whenever they’re both free from their minimum wage paying jobs, they dive into Lake Michigan, the water freezing and perfect, their shoulders red from the sun, and end the day with soft serve twists or stolen beer from Harry’s sister’s car or both. They go for late night rides in Louis’ car, speeding down vacant roads, the radio blaring, Louis screaming the lyrics to songs he hardly knows, making Harry laugh until he has tears streaming down his face. They explore untouched parts of the state, traipsing and climbing the outdoors, Louis leading, Harry following close behind with his Nikon pressed to his face, Louis ordering him to get a move on and put the damn camera away. They get breakfast for dinner, French fries for breakfast, and on one night, feeling particularly fancy, they dress up and eat at a restaurant  _ way _ out of their element. It’s expensive and delicious and halfway through dessert, Louis looks up through his lashes, irises piercing, and asks, “What’re you thinking about, Styles?” Harry answers, “Always thought green eyes were my favorite but now I think blue might be better.” When they take care of the bill and slide into the car together, Louis grabs the keys from Harry’s hand and climbs onto Harry’s lap, instead of letting him drive away, and he kisses up Harry’s neck, his jaw, his lips, and Harry wants every single bit of him, loves him so much.

They squeeze everything they can out of their final season together, waking up beside one another, sharing ice coffee and oversized sweatshirts, and when it’s time for Harry to start packing, he doesn’t want to stop sharing his stuff, his thoughts, his life. He doesn’t want to leave. His heart aches, his eyes hurt from crying, and when he climbs into the driver’s seat, giving his mom one final kiss through the window, he suddenly hates Seattle, wants nothing more than to keep the boy beside him.

He doesn’t say anything, though, just drives, keeps his eyes on the road, keeps his hand on Louis’ thigh, pretends it’s all okay, even though Louis can most definitely see through his transparency. But he doesn’t mention it, and Harry is grateful.

Louis stays in Seattle with Harry for four days, helping him settle in, making this new city feel like home. They spend the first two days as tourists, stopping at the aquarium, Harry snapping pictures of Louis in front of jellyfish and penguins and sharks, the two of them shrieking when they dip their hands into the stingray exhibit.

“What the fuck,” Louis yelps, “did you know they felt like slime?!”

Harry makes a face, groaning as the water sloshes over the side and soaks his boots. “No, they’re gross. Wait, Lou, look at their tiny, little mouths. They look like they’re smiling.”

“You would be the only person on this planet to find a stingray cute.”

“I think I want one.”

Louis laughs. “I don’t think there’s room for a stingray tank in your little dorm, my boy.”

Oh. Right. Dorm room. That’s why they’re here. This isn’t another adventure together. Harry smiles weakly, brushing his fingertips along the top of the stingray one more time before pulling his hand out. “Goodbye, little friend. And bye to you, too, stingray.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Louis sneers, splashing him with water from inside the tank.

 

It occurs to Harry by the end of day three that there hasn’t been a single moment spent apart; Louis is attached to Harry by an invisible string, afraid to stray too far, both of them aware that this is all the time they have left in the same state, in the same timezone. And as the minutes tick by, Harry feels like this is their final goodbye’s, and that thought scares him in a way that’s nearly suffocating. He doesn’t know how to voice that, is afraid to, so instead, he kisses Louis until it’s too much, lets Louis unbutton his jeans, falls into bed with him in a tangle of limbs and uneven breathing. He can’t say goodbye, but he  _ can _ do this. He doesn’t want to forget the way Louis’ lips look when they’re forming the vowels to whine out his name, the way his back arches when Harry touches him the way he wants him to, the way his nails litter half moons across Harry’s chest when it all gets too much for him, the definition in his arms, toned and perfect. He memorizes Louis, the exact color of his hair, the freckles on his chest, the scar on his elbow. Right before he comes, he looks down at Louis, sees the way Louis is staring at him, and realizes Louis is doing the exact same thing, memorizing, forcing himself to remember.

“You feel so fucking good,” Louis whispers, eyelids fluttering shut. “No one is as good for me as you are.”

Harry’s breathing picks up at that, his pulse racing, and as his thrusts grow sloppy, he bites back a thousand words, a million thoughts, settling with, “I love you so much.”

Harry drops Louis off at the airport early the next morning, trying not to let the tears slip out, and even though they both continue to promise  _ This isn’t over _ , they both know it is, they both know they’ve held onto every detail they could grasp until the last possible second. He’s hurting, knows Louis is, too, and neither of them can spit out the words, “So, this is it.” Instead, they act, a playful smile twisting across Louis’ lips when he stands up on his tiptoes to kiss Harry, telling him he can’t wait for their first FaceTime date, and Harry presses his hands to the small of Louis’ back, murmuring that he’s already counting down the days until Thanksgiving. And there’s so much more he wants to say - he’s nearly choking on it - but all he can come up with is, “Louis, baby. You are my light. You are my endless summer.”

Louis hangs onto him tightly, ignoring the voice booming on the speaker overhead. “I love you forever,” he whispers back.

 

Three weeks later, Harry gets the call he’s been waiting for, knew was coming, the one that he, himself, couldn’t initiate. Louis is sobbing, crying so hard Harry can barely make out the words  _ I can’t do this anymore _ , and he feels numb, feels angry.

“I miss you so much, it’s like it’s suffocating me,” Louis murmurs into the phone. “I need to let go. I need to focus on school and my life around me, not the life that’s back in Seattle. I can’t wake up crying everyday anymore, H. I love.” He swallows. “I love you so much, you have no idea. You turned my life upside down and now I can finally see straight for the first time. But, I can’t do this. Not right now. Not when I’ve forgotten how to live without you.”

Harry skips his next two days of classes, unable to get rid of the pit in the bottom of his stomach, and every time he feels like he can function, can go to his lecture or get coffee with his roommate or call his mom without positively breaking down, the waves come at him again, knocking him over, and his mind keeps screaming on repeat, “But I don’t  _ want _ to live without you.”

 

The autumn leaves fall from the trees one by one, like the days slipping away, one day further away from Louis, four days, 12 days, two months. The memories seem more distant, but the ache does, too. Harry can function again, can wake up without wanting to call Louis immediately, without wanting to book the first flight home. And it still hurts, still stings when he thinks about what he left behind, who he doesn’t get to touch anymore, but the pain isn’t as intense. Now, he laughs with new friends, parties with the people on his floor, takes photos of Seattle from different angles, happy to live in this city, happy it feels like home, gradually, day by day. His breath still catches in his throat whenever he catches a glimpse of Louis on social media, in his phone, in his dreams, but it’s not like a weight on his chest, and it’s not like oxygen, either. Instead, it’s just Louis, the boy that taught him how to love, how to be.

 

Harry’s home for Thanksgiving for only about seven minutes when his mom asks him to go to the grocery store.

“I’m so happy you’re home, baby, but I forgot heavy cream. I need you to go get it.”

“Mom, I just landed. I want to shower and see you and, like.” He makes a face. “ _ Not _ go to the grocery store the night before Thanksgiving. It’s probably a shit show in there.”

“ _ Harry _ , I love you, but Thanksgiving will be ruined if you don’t go and buy heavy cream right now.”

So here he is, in the dairy aisle of the store on the eve of Thanksgiving, searching through empty shelves in an attempt to find a single fucking carton of heavy cream for God only knows what, and right as he’s bending down to pick up the last one there, he can feel someone’s gaze on him, someone staring from behind him. He turns.

“Louis,” he breathes out, entire body tensing and relaxing at the same time, still can’t believe after so much time that he’s still this wildly attracted to him. He looks  _ perfect _ .

“Hi,” Louis whispers, voice the same as before, as if three months would cause any major changes. “You, uh.” He gestures toward the carton in Harry’s hand. “In a desperate need for heavy cream?”

He laughs, closing his eyes. “Yeah, that, and my mom nearly threatened me to buy it. It’s apparently imperative for Thanksgiving.”

“Sounds like Anne,” he hums. “Family coming over for the holiday?”

He nods. “I think so. Should be good,” he replies with a shrug.

“Good, good.”

“Yeah.” He licks his lips, not really giving it a second thought when he asks, “Hey, do you want to come? For dessert?”

Louis stills. “Seriously?”

“I mean, you don’t have to, sorry, only if you’re not busy or. I don’t know.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Sorry,” he repeats.

“No. I want to,” he nods, “definitely want to.”

“Fuck. Louis, just, c’mere.”

Louis drops his basket on the ground instantly, takes two strides toward him, and then he’s in Harry’s arms, holding on like he never left. Harry breathes him in, his shampoo the same, his breathing the same, and for the millionth time, he thinks that they were meant to be.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, doesn’t think he can ask what Louis wants, but whatever happens from here will be okay, it’ll all be okay.

Harry tightens his grip around Louis, Louis burrowing his face into Harry’s jacket.

_ It’ll be okay. _

* * *

Long after all the pies and chocolates have been wrapped up and put away, hours after all the guests have gone home, Harry and Louis sit on Harry’s bedroom floor, backs up against his bed, Louis drawing aimless circles against the pattern of the carpet. They talk about Seattle and Louis’ new roommate and the change in weather and the presidential election and the new movies out in theaters and dogs and Michigan and  _ anything _ but each other. It’s present, the fact that they’re avoiding it, and as they continue to pass a bottle of wine back and forth, Harry is starting to lose it, can’t help but stare at the way Louis’ eyes are focused on Harry’s face, at the way his lips curl around the wine’s spout, at the way his throat bobs when he swallows. He has to look away, too focused on remembering how the sweat would build up in his collarbones when Harry fucked into him on humid, damp nights, how his hair would stick to his forehead, how he tasted like salt and desperation and Louis.

Having Louis beside him without  _ really _ being able to have him has just set Harry back in weeks of progress, but now that he’s looking at him, Harry can’t actually remember why he was trying to move forward, anyway.

It’s a lot, Harry thinks, to still be this in love with someone who’s so unattainable, and he’s having a hard time telling his mind to shut up, to quit racing. But then Louis’ thumb is pressing against the backs of Harry’s knuckles and his breathing is deeper and he’s  _ so _ quiet when he whispers, “I figured out how to live without you.”

Harry’s chest aches. “I’m still working on it.”

“As it turns out, it’s worse,” he breathes out.

“What is?”

“Figuring out how to be alone. I hate every second of it. I’d rather be in agony missing you, because not having you is more excruciating than I imagined it would be.” His eyes are glassy when he looks up. “I didn’t just lose my boyfriend. I lost my best friend.”

Harry places the bottle of wine down on the carpet, movements a little shaky. He doesn’t know what to say, can’t put his thoughts into words he deems adequate. “I miss you so much,” he murmurs, his throat tight.

It’s not everything he wants to say, not even fucking close, but he  _ knows _ Louis can hear the want and pain and love.

It’s a start.

Their lips slot easily together, and it doesn’t feel like nostalgia; rather, it feels new, fresh, ironically innocent, and when Louis curls his hands around the back of Harry’s neck, Harry allows himself to sink into it, allows himself to exhale for the first time in  _ months _ .

 

At five in the morning, as Louis pulls his shirt back on over his head, his back muscles rippling, his tattoos stark against the glow of Harry’s bedside lamp, he murmurs how much he doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to be away from Harry anymore, an obvious strain based on how red his face gets when he admits it. Harry pulls him in close like he did at the grocery store - which now seems like it was decades ago - and tangles his fingers in Louis’ hair.

There are a lot of obstacles between them, so many things they can’t control, but Harry isn’t giving up on this again, not when he knows what it feels like to go without it. He whispers this against Louis’ cheek, Louis’ hands hot against Harry’s back, and this time, as Harry walks Louis to his car, air cold and morning sun just barely there, it doesn’t feel like goodbye.


End file.
